


Yo Quiero Taco Bell

by minusoneday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season 3 Spoilers, Sterek but only if you squint, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minusoneday/pseuds/minusoneday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic contains spoilers for some Teen Wolf behind the scenes pictures that pertain to the upcoming half of season 3. So as to not inadvertently spoil anyone, please click through to see the author's note for a summary!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yo Quiero Taco Bell

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the story of that time Derek returned to Beacon Hills, just in time to find his loft packed with drunk, glowing teenagers. Based off of [these](http://31.media.tumblr.com/47f296fb31aa127462b9866d3decefbc/tumblr_mt3kz9pRy21rpkgn8o4_1280.png) [pictures](http://31.media.tumblr.com/e6f13901c814e833b6ef60879f0cd721/tumblr_mt3kz9pRy21rpkgn8o8_1280.png), which came across my dash at like one in the morning and immediately led me to spit out almost two thousands words of nonsense that I ended up digging enough to repost here. Hope you enjoy! (Original tumblr post [here](http://sidekickinit.tumblr.com/post/61183308391/colethewolf-teen-wolf-behind-the-scenes). Do be mindful of the behind the scenes pictures, if you're trying to avoid those!)

Derek rolls back into Beacon Hills just before 1am on a Friday night, two days before Halloween. He stopped long enough to swing through a drive through and pick up some Taco Bell, and he’s really looking forward to getting out of this damn car and eating his chalupas. He’s not exactly excited about walking back into his loft, considering all of the terrible things that happened there just a few short weeks ago, but it's not like he has anywhere else to go, so - the loft it is.

He starts hearing the thump of a bass line from three blocks away, but it doesn't occur to him that the noise is coming from his loft until he's directly outside and he sees the steady stream of teenagers filing in and out of the building. 

His fingers clench tight, crumpling the rolled-down top of his Taco Bell bag. 

He pushes past what is _probably_ a sketchy drug deal happening in the shadows of the alley below his huge windows, then weaves his way through the various groping couples scattered along the staircase.

When he finally steps up to his doorway, he's treated to a veritable assault on his senses. The music is unconscionably loud, and everything is _glowing_. He squints, the harsh, neon lights too much for his eyes.

"Dude!" a guy slurs, stumbling over to him. He's somehow fashioned his hair into a multi-colored mohawk, and his face is painted to resemble a fairly terrifying jack-o-lantern. "Is that Taco Bell? You sharing?"

Instinct takes over before Derek can stop it, and he growls at the kid, lets his eyes flash blue. He's clearly wasted, it's not like he'll remember it as anything more than an alcohol-induced hallucination anyway.

Instead of registering Derek as a threat, the guy just sighs and drunkenly pats at his shoulder. "No problem, man," he says, "I get it. Leggo my eggo an' shit." He moves off before Derek can formulate a response.

It's for the best though, because in the next moment, he hears a voice ring out across the packed room, familiar enough that Derek can pick it out, even amidst the unholy cacophony wreaking havoc on his ears.

"STILES! STIIIIIIIIILES!"

It's Scott, but it's a Scott Derek hasn't heard before, blurred and unfocused, and it immediately puts Derek on high alert. He hadn't received any SOS texts in his time away, but who knows what shit Scott and Stiles might have gotten themselves into.

He shoves his way through the crowd, finally ending up at the base of his spiral staircase, where Scott and Stiles are sprawled all over each other in a giggling, ungainly heap. Stiles notices him first; it's hard to make out his face underneath his glowing, skeletal makeup, but Derek's fairly certain his gaze takes an appreciative journey, starting at Derek's boots and making its way up his legs, lingering awhile on his hips before tracking up his stomach and chest, finally settling on his face.

Stiles squints then, head cocked to the side like a confused puppy. "Derek?" he says, sounding like he doesn't actually believe it.

"Derek what?" Scott asks, face still half-buried in Stiles' stomach. Derek doesn't want to know. He has a feeling whatever explanation they have for this is going to involve falling down the spiral staircase, and he just - he deeply does not want to know.

"There's this guy, an' he looks like Derek," Stiles says, at which point Scott's head pops up, jaw dropping as he takes Derek in.

"Holy shit, Derek!" he exclaims, lurching to his feet, only to trip over Stiles' legs and crash headfirst into the metal railing.

"Oh, fuck, owwww," he moans, while Stiles cackles.

"Are you drunk?" Derek asks, voice ratcheting higher than usual in his disbelief.

"Maybe," Scott says, at the same time that Stiles lifts a cup of purple, phosphorescent liquid and proudly says, "Yes!"

" _How_?" Derek demands, feeling his features pull into a frown. "How the hell are you drunk? Werewolves don't _get_ drunk."

"Stiles stole a book from Deaton," Scott says, face twisted up in discomfort as he rubs at his head, even though whatever bruise he's earned has almost certainly healed by now.

"Stiles stole a book," Stiles agrees. "B'cause y'know what y'do when your best friend gets his heart broken? You get y'r best friend _drunk_. 'Cept it didn't work last time, so I had t'make plans this time. I'm a planner, Derek, man with a plan, that's me."

"Shut up," Derek says, grabbing Scott by the shirt and hauling him to his feet. He sways unsteadily, but stays mostly upright. Stiles doesn't make any move whatsoever to get up, just remains sprawled across the staircase like it's the most comfortable spot in the world.

"Are you two responsible for this?" Derek demands, giving Scott a firm shake. Scott groans, blindly clutching at Derek's sleeve.

"Stop that," he mutters. "That's not - s'bad idea, unless you want me to puke on your shoes."

Derek rolls his eyes heavenward, like maybe he'll find patience in luminescent graffiti somewhere on his ceiling, but he does quit shaking Scott. 

"It was Isaac's idea," Stiles supplies, struggling to sit up, then apparently thinking better of it and allowing himself to sag back into his former reclining position. "But we're not talking about Isaac, b'cause we're pretending it's not weird that he's totally boning Allison somewhere right now."

Scott gives a pitiful whine and turns to bury his face in Derek's shoulder, aiming an uncoordinated kick at Stiles.

"Sorry, bro," Stiles says, sounding immediately contrite. "Here, have some more punch."

"No," Derek intervenes, plucking the proffered cup from Stiles' hand. "Party's over. You two are going to sit right here until you sober the hell up, while I kick everyone else out. Then you're going to clean my loft, and then I'm going to _kill you_ for throwing this dumbass party in the first place."

"You're a funsucker," Stiles says darkly. Scott mumbles what sounds like agreement; when Derek steps away, he leans dangerously, then crumples right back down beside Stiles.

Derek ignores them, braving the sweaty mass of gyrating teenagers once more, until he reaches the alarm he'd rigged weeks ago. Some of the wires have disconnected in his absence, but it doesn't take long to put them back into place. As soon as that's done, he triggers the alarm. Luckily, it's loud enough to cut through the worst of the noise. At first, the teenagers nearby just look around in confusion, like maybe the alarm is part of the next song; Derek helpfully calls out, "Fire! Everyone out!" which is probably illegal for mob-inducing reasons, but it also proves an effective way to clear the space. Within five minutes, he's looking at a severely depopulated room, though the floor is strewn with cups, glowsticks, and a frankly shocking amount of clothing. 

There are a few stragglers, but Derek shoos them away by turning off the music and flipping on the lights, which earns him a chorus of agonized groans from over by the staircase.

"You're lucky I didn't call the cops," Derek snaps, picking his way through the mess, until he makes it back to Stiles and Scott. The two of them are quite a sight - rumpled, disheveled, sweaty and hollow-eyed under the crappy lighting. "You two - upstairs. You're going to drink some water and sleep this off, because as soon as the sun's up, you're on cleanup duty."

"Can't go upstairs," Stiles says, giving his head a woozy shake.

Derek grits his teeth, resists the urge to shove Stiles up against the nearest wall. What he wouldn't give for a steering wheel right now. "And why is that?" he asks.

"I told you," Stiles says in an attempted whisper, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Isaac an' Allison. An' _boning_."

"If they're having sex in my loft, I'm killing them first," Derek says, then shouts, "Isaac? _Isaac_!"

"No, they left," Scott says, sounding kind of miserable. "Awhile ago - they wouldn't've done anything where I could hear. They're bein' really - really nice. An' thoughtful about it."

"Aw, buddy," Stiles says sadly, knocking his fist against Scott's shoulder. "D"you want another drink? Lemme get you another drink."

"No," Derek cuts in. "No. Scott, upstairs. There's another bed up there - try not to fall asleep until you've had some water, okay?"

"Okay," Scott mutters, probably more agreeable than he should be, considering he's an Alpha now. He pushes himself to his feet once more, makes his wobbly, winding way up the staircase. Derek watches him go, ready to bolt after him if it looks like he's going to tip over the railing or something, but he eventually makes it all the way up, and Derek hears the soft 'flumpf' of him falling against the mattress.

Which, of course, leaves him with Stiles, who hasn't moved from where he's laid out on the stairs.

"Well?" Derek prompts. "Get up. I'm not about to carry your sorry ass upstairs."

"Dude," Stiles says, absentmindedly licking his lips. His eyes, Derek realizes, are fixed vaguely around his right thigh. He trails off, thought incomplete, until Derek shifts uncomfortably, and then he blinks.

"What?" Derek finally demands, his impatience getting the better of him.

"Is that Taco Bell?" Stiles asks, nodding toward the bag that's still clutched in Derek's hand.

Derek stares at him in disbelief. "No," he says, after a beat. "Absolutely not. What the hell makes you think you deserve Taco Bell?"

"Pleeeaaaase?" Stiles begs, making some truly pathetic 'gimme' hands at the bag.

Derek's fully prepared to say no - one gaze around his wrecked loft should be enough to strengthen his resolution on that front - but Stiles is looking sort of stupidly hopeful, and after a minute, Derek sighs and sits down beside him, begrudgingly opening up the paper bag and handing Stiles one of his chalupas.

"Yessssss," Stiles says, eagerly taking the chalupa and promptly causing a waterfall of lettuce and cheese to fall between his feet as he unwraps it. He's totally uncaring, of course, leaning in to take a huge bite, moaning as he chews.

"Mmmm, so good," he mumbles, cheeks bulging with food. "Y'r the best. M'glad you’re back - was startin' to miss your grumpy face, even."

"Shut up," Derek says, half-hearted at best, as he unwraps his own chalupa and takes a big bite, the two of them eating their food in something dangerously and disturbingly close to companionable silence.

Unbelievably, Derek thinks, mindful of the warm press of Stiles' body beside his, it's kind of nice to be home.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't eaten Taco Bell in probably ten years, but oh my God, did writing this ever make me crave it.


End file.
